


And The Livin' Is Easy

by HandsAcrossTheSea



Series: Those Hazy Days I Do Remember [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Summer, Temperature Play, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandsAcrossTheSea/pseuds/HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: Summertime tastes like the open road, the salt of sweat and kisses stolen in the sultry night.Summertime tastes like Dean.





	And The Livin' Is Easy

**Author's Note:**

> I will start right off by saying that this trash fire of a fic had a few moments of faltering on the part of the author. I struggle a lot with how my work fits in the context of this fandom. I know it's not to everyone's taste - it isn't to mine, sometimes. If you hate it, fine. I can't stop that. Sometimes I curse with every breath that I take as I sit down to start creating.
> 
> Only there is a place for it, and it takes some reminding at times that what I do - what we all do - as writers and artists is very, very valid and wonderful. No I'm never going to be in the same category as a fleshflutter or nyxocity, but what I make is good for me. Always write what you want to see in the world, even if no one else sees it but you. This fic is going to be my last SPN creation for a while. I have enjoyed this long, nearly unbroken streak of writing Sam and Dean Winchester so, so much that I feel like I get to know them better every time I do.
> 
> If you do read this story, I hope you take something good away from it, as I did writing it. My eternal thanks to Rizzo, Kat, Roma, and all of the other people in my newfound (and yet still lived in) corner of this fandom. You are all absolute rock stars.

            Dean had said “thirty minutes, Sammy, forty five _tops.”_

It’s been an hour and a half and Sam has done nothing but drink two Boneshakers and become so engrossed in the book he’d picked up a couple days ago that he’s practically become one with the dew-wet hood of the Impala.  Dean had promised to walk away with a thousand dollars before the night was up – and he had sincerely thought he could do it in that short of a period of time, _take advantage of all the people still in town._

It’s the day after Memorial Day, not the Fourth of July, and the town they’re in doesn’t exactly seem like a huge tourist destination anyway.  Who the hell wants to vacation in the middle of butt fuck Georgia, anyway?  The only distinguishing feature about Deacon County is its miles and miles of farms, a town called Adair that has suspiciously good coffee, and this biker bar that Dean had become strangely infatuated with the minute they saw it.

            Sam had weighed his options: either be hot outside where there’s at least a hint of air movement, or go inside and suffocate from the stench of a hundred sweating bodies pressed close together and a near-solid cloud of cigarette smoke.  Yeah, Sam will suffer out here with the cooler and a languid, simmering heat at the base of his spine.  There’s always been something about summer in the South that makes Sam’s body feel it beyond just his skin.  It’s like the heat gets trapped in his body and presses in on his lungs, making him breathe in a little deeper than normal, to slow down and _notice_ what’s around him.

            Feeling like a character in a Kate Chopin story or not, he still doesn’t quite believe Dean is going to walk away with a grand tucked into the back pocket of his aggravatingly well fitted jeans.  Maybe if he charges for a couple of the seemingly endless supply of world-class blowjobs he gives Sam at every chance, then yes, he very well could – Sam wouldn’t be in the least bit angry about it.  That mouth belongs to him and him alone, but renting it out for half an hour might mean a nicer place to stay for the next few nights, maybe an extra six pack of Boneshakers at the end of their current job.

            Sam has the feeling it isn’t the first time he’s done it, because Dean was the one who always had the money for extra things when they were growing up: Sam’s soccer uniform, dinner at the nicer places in the towns they rolled through, new shoes twice a year.  Dean didn’t talk about it then, and Sam doesn’t bring it up now.  They’ve both done things that they aren’t proud of but were necessary.

            He takes another long swig of beer and shoves the past back in its closet.  It burned with Jess, and that memory becomes a little less gut-wrenching every day.  He doesn’t even think of Stanford as home anymore, not really.  Yeah it would be nice to go back but… he’s got Dean.

            Given that there isn’t the sound of sirens rushing towards them, Dean _probably_ hasn’t pissed anyone off yet.  Sam should probably at least stick his head in the door to make sure anyway, but he’s comfortable.  There’s finally a breeze, he’s got a decent buzz, and the arousal, distant like thunderclouds on the horizon, is starting to rumble a little louder.  Not enough to go pull Dean away from his pool game and dick him in the back seat, no.  Dean would bite his head off if he was on a winning streak, no matter how horny Sam is.

            But it’s certainly a nice thought, and Sam lets it drift half-formed through his mind.

            He wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt and resettles himself, the pages of his book damp with the humid air.  He presses the empty, sweating bottle to the back of his neck and reads on, sighing quietly as the coldness seeps into that precious patch of skin.  His hair isn’t long enough to put up yet, the curls thick against his nape so that he sweats too fucking much under them.

            Like hell if he’d cut it right now – what would Dean tug on when he ate him out?

            He places his empty bottle in the cooler and fishes for another Boneshaker, making the melting ice clink and swish as he picks it up from the bottom.  There’s something so fundamentally beautiful about the sound of a cold one coming out of that beat up metal box, automatically calling up a million different memories, most of them with Dean front and center.  There’s been a lot of empty patches of America that have seen the two of them share a beer or two, with nothing but the sky and their heartbeats to accompany them while they drink.  Sam smiles as he picks up the bottle opener resting on his stomach, popping the cap off and inhaling the curl of vapor that wafts up from the mouth. 

            Sam doesn’t consider himself a beer snob, but this stuff if _terrific._ He relishes the coolness as it pours over his tongue and throat, getting warm again right as it hits his stomach.  If he finishes this one, he’s going to consider himself way more than buzzed – but that’s okay, because he’s not driving and cutting loose for a night is something Dean keeps encouraging him to do.

            Even in college, he didn’t drink to excess like some of his friends.  Drinking is something he’s only ever really enjoyed with Dean, and occasionally Bobby.  God, they got absolutely blitzed on his birthday, and Sam didn’t let on just how fucking hungover he was when Dean filmed him jerking off on the couch.  Yeah he kept it together for Dean’s sake but… that had been a little more difficult than he was anticipating.

            Dean, of course, has never held whiskey dick against him.

            Maybe Sam should stop after all, if there’s a chance later.

            “You look _incredibly_ comfortable, sprawled on the hood of _my_ car.”

            Sam looks up and sure enough, here comes Dean, flushed with sweat and sauntering towards Sam with a crooked grin.  “And?”

            “Why don’t you use the seats, like normal people do?”

            “Cause it’s hot and I didn’t want to.”  Sam licks his lips, capturing the salt-yeast mix of sweat and beer.  “That a problem?”

            “Ought to push you off.”  Dean plucks Sam’s bottle from his hands and takes a long pull for himself, Sam’s protest dying the second he watches Dean’s throat bob.

            “Um… can I have that back?”

            Dean flips him off and hands it back, leaving exactly two swallows left.  “Sorry – it’s thirsty work.”  Dean leans against the hood, plucking at his shirt to cool himself off.  “But I made fifteen hundred.”

            “They were that bad?”

            “Nah – I cheated.  Remember that little motion spell we pulled off that witch in ‘ninety eight?”

            Sam shrugs and contemplates his now empty bottle.  “Yeah, I guess.”

            Dean grins, and pulls the wad of cash out of his back pocket.  “Said it over the cue ball before we started.  Didn’t stand a chance.”  He tosses it towards Sam for him to count.

            “And that didn’t you know, piss your friends off?”

            “Once they started seeing the ball move on its own they didn’t exactly try to pick a fight. Helps when people think you’re magic.”  Dean turns so that he can plant his hands against the hood next to Sam, leaning over his body and looking down at him.  “Would have done better with you in there.”

            “And die of lung cancer?  No thanks.”  Sam catches a whiff of Dean and wrinkles his nose.  “You stink.”

            “Nah, baby, that’s the musk of victory.”  Dean raises both arms and Sam rolls away from him, the wind having shifted so that he smells _all_ of him.

            “Dude, stop!”  Sam lands on his feet with far less grace than he’d like, his legs nearly asleep and fuzzy with alcohol.  Dean’s on him in a second, acting very, very sober indeed.

            “Thought you liked my musk, Sammy.”  Dean tries to grab for his shirt, only for his fingers to close on empty air.  Sam isn’t going to run – yet – but seriously, Dean _reeks._

“You need a shower and…” 

            Dean may smell bad, but he looks _hot._ He’s got nothing to hide his torso except for the worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt hugging him with sweat, his pink bottom lip swollen where he’d been chewing it in concentration.  Add that to the cocky swagger from winning and Sam’s defenses are failing by the second.  Christ, Dean could have had anyone he wanted in that bar and here he is, outside trying to grab _Sam’s_ ass.

            “And what, Sam?”  Dean’s dropped his voice and fixed Sam with a gaze that makes Sam’s toes curl against the slippery gravel underfoot.

            “Maybe… maybe something to help your lip.  Looks swollen.”  Dean’s close enough now that his body heat is completely counteracting the breeze still trying to cut its way through the humidity.  “You knew that, right?”

            “You know how I play pool, Sammy.  Helps me think.”

            “Looks good on you.”  Sam swallows, aware that he probably doesn’t really smell any better than Dean does right now.  “ _Really_ good.”

            “Mmm.  One guy offered me five hundred if… y’know.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.  Told him he could stick it somewhere else.” 

            The tips of Dean’s boots are an inch away from Sam’s feet, arms braced to either side of Sam’s hips against the side of the car.  “Then he offered me seven hundred, even flashed it at me.”

            “That’s a lot of money, Dean.”

            “Damn right it is – but it’s not worth it.  Not worth the risk or…”

            “Or?”

            “Making you mad, Sammy.”

            Sam chuckles, the dim lights of the parking lot making Dean’s eyes flash deep, deep green.  “Hell, I’ll go down on him for seven hundred bucks, Dean, and I’m not nearly as good at it as you.”

            Dean growls, not at Sam but at the idea.  “Think I’d let him get that close to you?  Think I’d _allow_ some fucking bar trash anywhere near that pretty mouth of yours?”

            “Just a joke, Dean.”

            Dean’s mouth is over his before Sam can go any further, swallowing the electric charge in the air along with Sam’s tongue.  Sam doesn’t care that Dean needs a fucking shower, or that they’re in the middle of bass-ackwards rural Georgia, kissing like there’s not a single other thing for them to be worrying about right now.  Sam tastes the memory of Boneshaker on Dean’s tongue, wet and smooth against his own.  He draws Dean in by his hips, pulling their bodies as close together as the summery night will allow.

            Sam has to break the kiss when sweat starts to drip down his nose.  “Promise it was a joke, Dean.”

            “Just makes me angry, Sammy.  Don’t want fuckin’ anyone to touch or have you, they just… no one deserves you, too fuckin’ good for it.”

            “And you aren’t?”

            “Gave that up long ago, baby.  That first time after you figured it out, swear it nearly killed me.”  Dean kisses him again, washing away the memory before Sam’s brain even gets the chance to fully form it.  Sam sighs, fingers curled over Dean’s hipbones and gripping him as tightly as their damp skin will allow.

            “I know.”  Sam kisses him three times, short, hard kisses that make Dean start to pant with need.  “I know.”

            Dean cradles Sam’s face in his hands, looking at him with something so naked and fiercely passionate that it makes Sam’s stomach drop.  “Swear you’re not pissed at me for taking so long?”

            Sam laughs, slipping his fingers under Dean’s shirt.  “You kinda killed my buzz, actually.”

            “Hey, at least you had one.”  Dean kisses him one last time and lets him go, going right for the still open cooler.  “Spell only works if you’re sober.”

            “Surprised the hex bag didn’t fuck up from all the sweat.”  Sam reseats himself on the edge of the hood, offering the bottle opener to Dean first.  “It’s only sexy if it’s _sex_ sweat.”

            “Man, shut up – not everyone sweats pretty like you do.”  Dean clinks the bottom of his bottle against Sam’s and moans with happiness as he drinks, the purest, most sinful music to Sam’s ears.  His cock stirs, thickening in his jeans and sticking to his leg with sweat.

            “How come you’re the only person who ever thinks that?”  He sprawls his legs, trying to pull his body parts back into place without making it obvious.  “Jess never mentioned it, Brady…”

            “That’s because of poor taste, Sammy.  Sweat is hot.”

            “You sweat _because_ you’re hot.”

            Dean lights him up with another grin, this one dialed up to ten thousand watts.  “Shit, Sammy, then you should be sweating all the time.”

            Sam has to look up at the sky and bite his lip to keep from taking Dean right then and there.  “Cheesy pick-up lines, really?”

            “Gotta try, don’t I?”  Dean lays a hand on Sam’s thigh, squeezing and rubbing with _way_ too much focus for it to be simply affectionate.  “Unless I’m reading that boner you’re trying to hide incorrectly.”

            Sam closes his legs and looks away, sipping his beer.  “Just drink and shut up, Dean.”  He ruins his own point by laughing, and not ten seconds later he feels Dean’s beer-chilled lips against the side of his neck.

            “I’ll drink alright – swear to God your come makes the best fuckin’ chaser.”

            Sam is one hundred percent positive that it’s possible that someone _can_ spontaneously combust without the help of the supernatural under the right, Dean-shaped circumstances.

___

            It’s their last day in Georgia and Sam is going to take advantage of it while he can.  Right outside of Adair he had seen a sign for fresh peach ice cream, and Dean hadn’t protested in the least when he’d borrowed the Impala to go in search of it.  Dean had been living with this hazy, lazy expression on his face all day, like he doesn’t have a single thing to take care of in the world.  They had solved their poltergeist problem with surprisingly little effort (save for nearly falling through the second floor of an ancient, dusty town house) and that… had been it.  Nothing else to do, and Dean didn’t want to leave Adair just yet.

            Sam’s already missing the double scoop of peach he’d eaten on the drive back, his mouth still tasting cold and sweet with the fresh memory.  He’d thought about getting one for Dean too but it wouldn’t have been worth having it melt all over the seat of the Impala.  Besides, Dean isn’t one for peach flavored things anyway, so hey, more for Sam.

            He comes back to the motel room to find Dean missing.  His bag is there, the covers on the bed are still turned down – but Dean isn’t there.  The leather jacket is still in the chair, along with his boots at the side of the bed. 

            Wherever he is, he hasn’t gone far.  Dean doesn’t go anywhere barefoot, save for the bathroom after sex and when he gets up in the morning.  Sam pockets his keys and brushes his bangs back from his forehead, pondering just where the hell it is his brother has gone.

            Two minutes of searching the hotel property finds Dean at the pool, stripped to the waist with his jeans rolled up and his feet in the water.  Beside him is their cooler, closed against the late afternoon sun.  Dean’s lying on one of the motel towels, a book propped on his chest and a popsicle in his other hand.

            Sam can’t help but smile as he quietly moves towards him, stopping only when he’s looming over Dean and blocking the sun.

            “You look comfortable.” 

            Dean pulls down his sunglasses and crooks his finger for Sam to come towards him.  “Not often I get to work on my tan.  Wanna popsicle?”

            “I’m good – and since when have you ever worried about a tan?”  He kneels carefully on the hot concrete, reaching out to run his fingers through Dean’s sun-warmed hair.  With as much time as they’ve been spending outside lately, it’s almost two shades lighter than normal and does nothing but make Dean look about a hundred times prettier than normal.  Add that to the fresh splashes of freckles all over his body and Sam’s pretty much powerless to resist.

            “It’s summer, Sammy.  Can’t look like a couple of creeps who stay inside all the time.”

            “Yeah, because running through the woods chasing werewolves or giant mutant bugs is such a fun experience.”  Sam kind of wants to pull Dean to him but he looks so fucking comfy right now it’d be a mortal sin to do so.

            “When have we chased giant mutant bugs?”  Dean fellates his popsicle – most likely intentionally – and ends up with purple, sticky juice dripping down his chin.  Sam pretends to ignore it, eyeing Dean’s body and low-slung jeans.  They’re just barely up to the top of his pubes, his treasure trail looking awfully fucking inviting.

            Jesus Christ, Sam wants to lick him from throat to navel.  Maybe lower if Dean doesn’t beat him to doing the same to him.  Between so much of Dean on display

            “It could happen.”  Sam swallows against the dryness in his throat, caught off guard by Dean being Dean as he reaches for the cooler and fishes out a bottle of water.  Dean’s eyes are locked on him as he uncaps it and spills some of it over his neck and chest before drinking; he’s soaked through with sweat anyway, not like a little water is going to hurt him.

            “Yeah, I’ll let you know if I find a case with ‘em.”  Dean’s popsicle is now half the size it was a minute ago, and Sam can’t stop looking at the juice running down his fingers.  Neither of them make a move, playing the mental game of rock-paper-scissors to see who goes first.

            “Your uh, popsicle is…”

            “Melting, yeah.  Kinda sticky.”  Dean sits up and offers his hand to Sam, popsicle and all.

            Sam’s not in the slightest bit embarrassed by the way he automatically fellates Dean’s sugary fingers, not after Dean fucking _moans_ as his tongue swirls around each one, licking them clean like he’s just given Sam an absurdly hot handjob and is letting him deal with the resulting mess.

            His quick fire fantasy moves several steps closer to reality when Dean’s hand cups him through his jeans, fingers splayed wide to get as much of a handful as he can.

            “You wanna, Sammy?  No one out here but us.”  Dean’s voice is brittle with lust, like one more swipe of Sam’s tongue over the pads of his fingers is going to blow him apart.

            Sam kisses his fingertips as he lets him go, licking his lips for one more taste of salt-sweet Dean.  “Got an idea.” He stands up and empties his pockets, laying everything aside before stripping down to his boxers and getting in the near blood warm water of the pool between Dean’s legs.

            “Hand me a popsicle.”  He kisses Dean’s stomach and collarbones, nipping at flesh that’s gone very, very hot under his flesh.  He tastes sunscreen and sweat, mixed with the always present, vibrant taste of _Dean._

“Uh, you still want this?”  Dean’s voice is hoarse with arousal, offering Sam a bright, sinfully red cherry popsicle.  It’s already starting to melt right along with Sam’s willpower to not demolish Dean right here on the edge of this pool.

            “Mmm.”  Sam takes it and deep throats it for two cold, long seconds, coating the inside of his mouth with its intoxicatingly artificial flavor.  Dean doesn’t get a second to breathe before Sam’s tongue is pushing past his lips, sharing the slick sweat of his chest and neck with the popsicle as a chaser.  Dean loops his arms around Sam’s neck and draws him in tighter, hungry for more.

            “Hold still, Dean.”

            Sam’s voice is barely louder than the soft lap of the water around his waist.

            He licks the end of the popsicle with the tip of his tongue, getting it nice and cold before he flicks Dean’s left nipple with it, skin hot enough to melt the cold away after two seconds – but Dean moans anyway, and Sam repeats what he just did.

            “Feel good?”

            “Fuckin’ right it does – but you’re gonna ruin popsicles for me.”  Dean doesn’t shove him away and Sam goes for his right one, doing the same thing and getting blasted by the heat of Dean’s arousal.  He lingers a little longer this time, sucking and biting at that pretty little nub.  He takes another long suck off the popsicle and weaves his tongue over Dean’s collarbone, moving from right to left and then back again, sucking a mark right at the base of his throat before coming back to Dean’s mouth.  Dean’s kiss is all teeth and need, wet, warm clay in Sam’s hands to mold however he pleases.

            “On the contrary Dean – I _like_ popsicles.”  Sam fellates his again, nearly gone and not nearly enough left to do anything with.  “Any more?”

            Dean groans, grinding the heel of his hand against his crotch.  “Yeah, but I’m saving it.”  Dean’s eyes flash with a promise, and Sam doesn’t bother to ask any further.  Instead he grabs a piece of ice and runs it over Dean’s lips and chin, cooling him as he makes his way towards his nipples again.  He circles with agonizing slowness, completely ignoring the sun beating down on his naked back and shoulders.  Any goddamn sunburn he gets is more than worth making Dean come apart for a little while.

            “Think you can come from just getting your tits played with, Dean?”  Sam bites down on the meat of Dean’s left pec, right over his heart.  Fucking _hell_ Dean tastes amazing, lit up under Sam’s mouth like a wildfire.

            “Fuck, Sammy… yeah, yeah I can.”

            Jesus _Christ_ that’s hot.

            Sam alternates between nipples, licking, sucking biting, each and every little thing he does making Dean gasp and twitch, his fingers wound tightly into Sam’s hair.  His scalp burns where Dean keeps digging in way too hard, trying to direct Sam where he wants him to go – but Sam doesn’t budge, working each and every little spot until Dean feels and sounds like he’s going to snap like a piano wire that’s wound too tightly.

            “C’mon, Dean, cream your fucking pants for me.”  Sam growls every words, adding in working Dean’s bottom lip to the mix.  He could reach down and give Dean that extra little shove but that’s not what he wants, wants Dean to lose it from just this.

            “Hell, Sam, that… I’m so fuckin’ close, just…” 

            Sam bites him right at the join of his neck and right shoulder, sinking his teeth in as he pinches Dean’s nipples _hard._

Dean’s hips buck forward, and Sam knows he’s got him, trying to thrust against Sam’s stomach, only he’s got nothing but to get friction from but the heavy, dead air itself, pulling down lungfuls as he comes and shakes, holding onto Sam’s shoulders like a life preserver against a storm.  Sam kisses him through it, backing off on the stimulation until Dean’s through the last of the aftershocks, breathing hard against Sam’s neck and purring like a kitten.

            “Was fuckin’ good, Sammy – but we aren’t done yet.”  Dean slides off the edge of the pool and into the water, pushing Sam backwards until they’re floating in the middle and trading slow, chlorine-tinged kisses, his legs wrapped around Sam’s waist and his hands cradling the back of his neck and head.  Sam’s cock is rock hard, sticking out the rucked up left leg of his boxers and rubbing against Dean’s ass.

            “Unless you’ve got lube and a subtle way to do this, I’m not fucking you in the pool.”  Sam’s perfectly content with just rubbing off against him and spooging the water, only Dean has this wicked look in his eyes that makes Sam’s stomach churn with anticipation.

            “You let me worry about it, alright?”  Dean starts to drag them back to the edge of the pool.

            Realization at Dean’s intentions make Sam paddle faster, letting himself be hauled up out of the water and sat down on the edge of the pool.  The towel is way too fucking thin and the concrete burns the backs of his thighs very quickly – but Dean’s eying his cock like it’s the single most important thing he’s ever seen.

            “Been wantin’ to get at this all day.”  He licks up slowly from Sam’s balls to the tip of his foreskin, closed up around the head.  Dean tongues at his frenulum as he pulls down, exposing Sam to the sun and Dean’s hot, too fucking good mouth.  “Kinda messed up, isn’t it, wanting my little brother to throat fuck me with his huge cock?”

            Sam groans, drunk and dizzy, between the filthy-hot words and the sun charging his desire to intensely it threatens to close his throat up.  “That fuckin’ mouth, Dean.”

            “Damn right my fuckin’ mouth, Sammy.”  Dean sucks the head just past his lips, teasing his tongue through the precome leaking from Sam’s slit.  “Only fair I tease you too.”

            Sam hands him the last popsicle, dying for more of whatever Dean’s offering.  “You better hurry or I’m gonna hold your mouth open myself.”

            “Bossy motherfucker.”  Dean unwraps the popsicle and licks it just like he did Sam’s cock, taking it all the way down his throat and holding it there until his mouth is cold through.  He doesn’t take it out until his top lip closes over the head of his cock, managing to squeeze both the sugary treat _and_ Sam into his mouth, cold-hot to midshaft where Dean has to stop.

            It’s sincerely one of the hottest moves Dean’s every pulled on him, and his arsenal of “things to make Sam fucking lose it” is _endless._

Dean plays up gagging on both the popsicle and Sam, orange colored, sticky saliva dripping down into Sam’s pubes and off his balls.  The sharp contrast of temperature makes Sam’s vision swim, that lightheaded feeling growing stronger with every passing second that Dean holds him in his mouth.

            “You’re gonna kill me with this shit, Dean.”  Sam’s fucking proud of himself for stringing that sentence together as coherently as he did, considering that Dean’s now nudging the fast melting popsicle against his balls, making lazy figure eights that make Sam want… well, just _want._

“Nah, Sammy – what’s a little temperature play to you anyway?”  Dean sucks him again, his throat working around his thick shaft, _milking_ Sam with his tongue.  He comes up for air a minute later, licking his lips clean of the smeared mess of sugar and sweat.  “Think you lost any credibility in the totally vanilla department when you made me wear panties for a week back in March.”

            Sam snorts, trying to stroke himself if Dean’s going to kink shame him – only to have his hand batted away.  “You basically _volunteered_ to do that.”

            “Fuckin right I did – anything to get your hands on me.”

            Dean deep throats him, and Sam’s brain scrambles any witty comment he could possibly make.  Dean’s a fucking monster at the best of times, drawing out every fucking blowjob he gives – not because he wants to get Sam off, no.

            He just enjoys having Sam’s cock in his mouth for as long as possible.

            Thank God the popsicle finally fucking melted.

            Dean might be trying his hardest to string Sam along for a little longer but Sam had gotten so fucking close when he was messing with Dean that it’s only a matter of time before Dean’s best efforts are overridden by Sam’s insanely powerful need to blow, fed by the unforgettable image of wet, sun-reddened Dean between his legs, his lips stretched by Sam’s girth and making every freckle on his cheeks stand out.  Sam tries to reach for him, too fucked up on the sun and Dean’s touch to actually go through with it.  He can only watch, Dean’s blonde head bobbing up and down on his cock, pulling Sam closer and closer to the precipice.

            All Dean has to do is hum a few muffled notes of “Ramblin’ Man” and it’s over, the vibrations from his deep, cock-wrecked voice the last little shove that Sam needed.

            Sam’s orgasm hits him so hard he nearly double over, flooding Dean’s mouth and feeling the thick, stifling heat travel with it, pulse after pulse of warmth wracking his body until his spine is liquid and he’s barely conscious.  They need to get inside before they dehydrate and have to answer to the motel owners as to just what the hell they were doing out here, undressed and sunburned. 

            Dean pulls him into the water the second he finishes, his mouth holding every drop to kiss back to Sam.  They drift to the corner of the pool and stay there, wrapped around each other until both of them are sticky with chlorine and spunk.  Sam can’t help the dopy grin he’s giving Dean, clue number one that they need to go the fuck inside and stay there until everything is back online.

            “Dean, we…. Fuck, you’re so goddamn…”  Sam can’t find the word he’s looking for, but Dean looks at him like he knows exactly what he’s talking about.

            “I know – and you need to eat more peaches.  All of ‘em.  Gonna buy you a truckload if they’re gonna make you taste that sweet.”  Dean licks Sam’s lips like he’s going to find some last, untasted drop of sweetness that he didn’t get in his utterly vulgar exploration of Sam’s mouth after he came.

            “’S your imagination, don’t think I taste like that.”  Hell, maybe he does – but the sun’s starting to fuck with his ability to remember.

            “Yeah you do.”  Dean pushes Sam’s wet hair back from his face, eyes glassy and flecked with gold.  “Feel kinda sticky.”

            “It’s cause we ruined popsicles for everyone.”  Sam has to make an effort to get back to where their clothes are laying, pulling down his boxers to at least try and preserve his modesty.  “Us included.”

            “Don’t think so.”  Dean follows, his jeans sodden and heavy – but clinging way too prettily to Dean’s ass and thighs.  “Think they’d let us have more?”

            “Only if we don’t tell ‘em what we did, okay?”  Sam feels high right now, and Dean hangs on to his arm like he’s drunk as they walk back to their room.

            “Deal.”

            Five hours later when they wake up from their nap, sunburned and aching, Sam decides that both popsicles and pools are _way_ more fun than he ever thought they could be.

___

            Sam’s starting to wonder how he can go and get more ice without actually moving.  He tried using his powers but it doesn’t seem like they do much except for when there’s danger – and that’s already passed.  Sam doesn’t like wrestling matches with golems any more than the next guy but this one had gotten him in a bear hug that had been absurdly hard to break out of until Dean weakened up him with a spell – _you’re strong, Sammy, go fight him._

They had won, but Sam’s got bruises on his bruises and Dean’s been gone since he woke up that morning.  He hadn’t left a note or text indicating any urgency, so Sam’s more than content to lay down and nurse himself for a bit.

            Only his ice has melted and his shoulder is fucking _killing_ him.  They’re out of painkillers right now (hopefully that’s part of whatever it is Dean’s doing) and Sam’s mad about it – but at least the view out the motel window is nice.  They’re high in the Boston Mountains of Arkansas, rolling and green.  It’s still hot as hell, but it’s not quite as humid as Georgia.  Sam had managed to shower that morning and not died from the steam clotting the air, so it’s a win.

            But his body still hurts and he _needs_ to move.  Going stiff isn’t going to help him get better any faster and at some point, he will have to get up.  He’s not going to spend a month in a cruddy Arkansas motel room, no matter how gorgeous the mountains are.

            With a groan, Sam sits up and swings his feet off the bed, back protesting every movement.  He’s thirsty as hell – thank God Dean had at least thought to stock up on water a couple days ago.  Fresh, naturally filtered spring water that’s local to the area they’ve been hunting in.

            He downs a full bottle, humming with contentment as the cold liquid slides down his throat.  There isn’t much to snack on except some beef jerky – beggars can’t be choosers, and it’s been a long time since their diner breakfast.  He opens the Slim Jim and wrinkles his nose, deciding that maybe if he doesn’t smell it then it won’t taste quite as bad.

            How the hell Dean gulps these down like candy is beyond him, but his stomach _does_ quit grumbling somewhat.  He ends up eating two of them, probably to his regret later, given that they give even Dean the runs occasionally (those are the nights Dean gives him a blowjob and rolls over to suffer with Sam cuddled up to his back.  Dean can take a fucking monster down while bleeding from every surface and not bat an eye, yes, but a stomach ache?  Worst thing that could happen to him.)

            Sam takes a piss, washes his hands clean of the smell of Slim Jim, and pulls on his shoes to go off in search of more ice for his shoulder.  This place is bound to have an ice machine, right?

            The Impala is pulling into the parking spot outside their room right as Sam’s coming back with two cupfuls, relief at seeing Dean again already making him feel a little better.

            “We making margs or somethin’?”  Dean gestures to the ice in his hands and grins at him.

            “Not unless you brought the tequila – where the hell have you been man, was starting to get lonely.”

            Dean gives him a non-committal look and follows Sam into their room.  “Nowhere, really, just… exploring.”

            Sam can’t help but wonder what exactly _exploring_ means, but he’s more concerned with getting his ice pack together again.  “Exploring, huh?”

            “Mmm.  Need help with that?”  Dean takes the ice away from him before Sam can answer, dumping it into the plastic baggie Sam’s been using since yesterday.  “Christ, Sam, your back is fuckin’ purple.”

            Sam grunts as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, Dean on his knees behind him and helping him position the ice under his raised shirt.  “Just remember that this is what it looks like when you say _go wrestle this thing with supernatural strength, Sam, I’m sure you’ll win._ ” 

            “But Sammy, we _did._ ”

            “Yeah, and now neither of us are getting laid until I can move for more than five minutes without seizing up.”  Of course, Sam isn’t even sure if his body is _capable_ of getting hard right now.  This is the sort of ache that goes past the bones and blunts the nerve endings to everything _except_ how much you fucking hurt.

            Dean rubs the tops of his shoulders and works the nape of his neck, voice a little quieter.  “Worth waitin’ for, Sammy.”

            That does at least make Sam feel a little better.  “Look, man, it’s fine if you need it while I’m not up to bat.  Not like you’re gonna run off and chase monsters with her.”

            “Yeah, but no one else does the tongue thing I like except you.  Drawn diagrams and everything and still no one gets it.”  Dean’s still behind him, fingers scritching around the base of Sam’s hairline.  It makes Sam’s head loll forward, trying to pinpoint what _tongue thing_ Dean is talking about.

            “Tongue thing?”

            “Yeah.”  Dean’s hands slide forward, still very, very careful, to Sam’s chest.  “When you eat me out it feels, y’know, like you’re fucking my ass with your tongue.”

            Arousal pulls at the bottom of Sam’s spine, proving his theory about not being able to get hard completely wrong.  “ _That_ tongue thing?”

            “Damn right.  No one else, Sam, _no one._ ”

            “I really don’t think we should be basing our physical fidelity to each other around how well I do one specific thing with my tongue, don’t you?”

            “That and your cock is fucking huge and I kinda like it when you dick me so hard I feel it in my guts.”  Dean sounds absolutely sincere and while it’s flattering, Sam knows it’s so, so much more than that.  It doesn’t need addressing, certainly not now – it just _is._

           “Give me a couple more days and I’ll uh… do that.”  Sam tilts his head back and smiles up at his brother, his whole body tingling with this sort of indescribable warmth that he only feels in quiet, private moments like this one.

            Like he and Dean are a regular _couple._

Sam stops himself from saying anything further and lets Dean kiss him, slow and soft, saying every fucking thing he needs to without so much as a syllable.

            “I do have something to show you, if you’re done being bedridden.”  Dean chuckles when Sam huffs at him and pulls away, tasting Dean along with the lingering saltiness of the Slim Jims.

            “I’m not _bedridden._ ”

            “Then grab your shit and let’s go, because time’s a wasting.  Chop, chop, Sammy, it’s gonna take us a while to get there.”

            Dean does at least grab him some more ice before they take off again, thundering southeast like filaments drawn to the point on some great iron plateau.

 

___

            “A drive in theater?  These still _exist_?”  Sam feels like he’s been snatched back in time fifty years – but Dean looks awfully proud of himself for the surprise he’s put together.  “How the hell’d you find this place?”

            “Found out about it when I was uh, on my errand earlier. Thought it’d be cool to check out.”  It’s just past sundown, and there are a surprising number of cars on the grass lot with them.  Dean parks a good distance away from the rest of them, indicating to Sam at least that maybe his intentions aren’t to focus on the move the whole time – which Sam his no problem with.

            “Should we ask Dad for money to get a shake at the drug store after?” Sam can’t help but tease him, and Dean frowns back like he’s genuinely hurt.

            “Don’t make fun of me, Sammy, I’ve always wanted to see what one of these was like.”  Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and shuts the car off, gaze lingering over Sam.  “And as hard as we’ve been working lately I thought we deserve a night off.  Maybe two.”

            Sam nods, unable to fully understand just _why_ he got Dean and someone else didn’t.  “Yeah, I know.  It is cool, Dean, really.”

            Dean smiles back at him and puts his hand on Sam’s thigh.  “I got candy earlier – in the cooler.”  His palm is fiery warm, even through Sam’s jeans.  Heat creeps up and settles low in his belly, fighting to win out over the ache still squeezing his ribcage.

            “’D you get M&M’s?”

            “Every kind I could find, so regular and peanut.”  Dean doesn’t take his hand away, and neither does Sam try to move him.  This is absolutely, one hundred percent a date, and Dean fucking knows it too.  A date that they drove _three hours_ to get to because Dean has zero sense of “that’s too far.”

            “Fuck yeah.”  Sam grabs the peanut ones first, a great big bag of them that he can’t possibly eat all by himself.  It’s not the fanciest dessert in the world but it’s going to be damned good, just because it’s with Dean.

            Loud, epic music starts to play on the screen four hundred feet away from them, and Sam recognizes it as _The Maltese Falcon._ He scoots a little closer to Dean and puts the bag of candy between them, eating two or three at a time, occasionally brushing hands with Dean when they reach for it at the same time.  Every little contact makes Sam’s body hum, sparks thrown off in a thousand different directions because Dean is acting like his fucking boyfriend and not…

            Hell, Sam doesn’t even have a term.

            “Good movie, isn’t it?”

            Dean’s voice cuts through the charged atmosphere that Sam’s built entirely for himself like a warm knife through butter.

            “Yeah, it is – but Bogie’s always good, isn’t he?”  Sam has to stop with the M&M’s, his teeth starting to hurt from all the sugar.  He drains the rest of his water bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand – all to the rapt, unwavering attention of Dean.

            “Fuckin’ right, even if _Casablanca_ did suck.  _African Queen_ was way better.”  Dean surreptitiously moves a little closer, not an inch of space left between their thighs – if that much.

            “That’s because you have a thing for Katherine Hepburn.”

            “Tall and dark hair, no other way to go.”

            Dean closes in and kisses the chocolate right off of Sam’s lips, cupping his jaw and _seducing_ him into the kiss, angling his head and jaw so that Sam feels every soft, warm part of his mouth, plush and wet and everything Sam has ever wanted from a kiss.  God, but it is, every time Dean kisses him – it _has_ been.  There’s never anything less than Dean’s full intent behind every one and that realization settles over Sam’s shoulders like a warm blanket, electrified and made even better when Dean’s fingertips skim over the side of his neck and ear.

            “Been a while since we made out in the back row of the movies, huh Sammy?”  Dean sounds incredibly proud of himself and Sam can’t help but laugh against his mouth.

            “Wasn’t anything stopping us, was there?”  Sam splays his hand across Dean’s chest, rubbing small, slow circles that absorb the maximum amount of body heat without making his shoulders protest in discomfort.  Dean’s closeness helps, as does his sneaky thoughtfulness and the fact that they’re making out like teens on the third date, but being backed into the corner against the window like this is starting to get incredibly uncomfortable.

            Sam tries his hardest to hide the wince when the armrest digs a little too hard into the small of his back.

            “You good?”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine – can you hand me another water?”

            Dean studies his face for a moment, face lit up by the huge, silver screen shining through the windshield.  “Think I can do you one better.”  Dean kisses him again and backs himself to the door, popping the trunk and leaving Sam to put himself back into a more comfortable position.

            Upon his return, Dean holds up a bong and bag of what has to be some incredibly strong weed, his grin triumphant like he’s just won a tough round of poker.

            “I was expecting Vicodin but… I’ll take it.”  Not that Sam would say no to either one of them but Dean’s heart at least is in the right place.

            “Well it’s been a minute since we smoked together and since this is a double feature, I thought we could… enhance the experience.”  Dean pours water in the base of the bong and packs the bowl, quick and easy like he’s done this a million times before.

            Of course, it’s possible he has.  Sam missed a lot of him over the last couple years, and there are definitely worse things to take comfort in.

            “If someone smells it, just know I’m putting the blame completely on you.”  Sam sits close, thighs pressed together, hand resting on Dean’s knee.

            “Call it medicinal and watch them try to explain their way out of that one – _my brother’s sick and needs it._ Then you hit ‘em with the puppy dog eyes and boom, get out of jail free.”  Dean gets his lighter out of his pocket and goes to touch it to the weed, only to stop short.  “You know what – you get the first hit.”

            “Your thoughtfulness is boundless.”  Sam takes the bong and settles it in his lap, hoping like hell Dean did at least bother to clean it before he decided to use it.  He seals his mouth over the end and breathes in perfect sync with the flame, getting a strong, sweet-tasting lungful of smoke that feels like the equivalent of the world’s best fucking back scratch, only on the inside and a thousand times better.

            He holds it in for a few more precious seconds before closing his eyes and tilting his head upward, exhaling slowly so that the smoke blossoms around him in a hazy, white cloud.

            “That’s fuckin’ _hot._ ”  Dean sounds like he’s just found God, and Sam is one hundred percent sure he just found a kink.

            “This is good stuff.  _Really_ good stuff.”

            “Think it needs a second opinion.”  Dean repacks and gives Sam the lighter, trusting him to time it right.  “Hit me.”

            Watching the change in Dean’s features as he inhales and holds it in his mouth is something that people should absolutely charge money to see, his features lightening and his shoulders losing the hard set that he can never quite seem to get rid of.  He doesn’t exhale for a long moment, looking scarily close to a wine expert tasting some rare vintage for the first time.

            Dean turns his head and squeezes Sam’s jaw to open his mouth up, just a little way, before exhaling slowly.  Sam breathes in as much of it as he can, getting the taste of his brother and this fucking _magical_ stuff.  Their lips just barely touch and yet Sam can’t fight the subtle, soft claws of arousal that pull at the base of his cock.

            “Do that again.”

            Dean complies, and this time dovetails the smoke with a long, sweet kiss, making Sam feel like his whole body is singing every chorus of all of his favorite songs and that yeah, everything is going to be okay.  Already his back isn’t aching as much and Dean has managed to get himself halfway into his lap, making contact at every possible point.

            Sam has to break the kiss to breathe but damned if he’s going to move any further away from Dean than he absolutely has to.  “I wanna try that – ‘s there more?”

            “Sure is, baby boy.”  Dean hands him the bong and lets Sam pack in as much as he wants, patiently waiting until Sam’s ready.

            Not to be outdone, Sam exhales into Dean’s mouth as he rubs over his left nipple through his shirt, hard and prominent from such continual, intimate contact with Sam.  The soft, happy little moan he makes against Sam’s lips is intoxicating, and Sam does it again as the last of the smoke leaves his lungs and fills up Dean.

            “So fuckin’ hot, Sammy, swear you’re…. just… _hot._ ”  He has his arms around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him as close as he can without jamming them behind the steering wheel. Between the silvery light from the movie screen and the dark Arkansas night behind them, Dean looks every bit like some sort of matinee idol, a hundred times more handsome than Humphrey Bogart could ever hope to be.

            “Shhhh, they’ll hear.  Secret.”

            “Not a secret, Sam, you’re…. you’re tall, they can see you.  You’re hot and tall.”

            “Like Katherine Hepburn?”

            Dean grins, huge and untouched by a single worry, just for Sam.  

            “ _Exactly_ like Katherine Hepburn.”

___

            There are nightmares about Jess’s death that plague Sam, even months after the fact.

            Some of them aren’t about her, of course.  There are the ones where he’s the one helpless in the situation, and there’s no shortage of horrors that his brain chooses to give him on any given night.  Sam knows that this is because of the two bowels they smoked before bed, trying to shake of the real life terror of hunting a fucking demon.

            They haven’t come across many in their travels, but Sam maintains a very deep, profound terror of them.  Ghosts?  Wendigos? Harpies?  All killable.

            Demons they can only send back to where they came from, and they had led a string of bloody, horribly mutilated bodies down from the southeastern corner of Tennessee to the suburbs of Columbia, South Carolina, a six day chase that had ended in both of them nearly losing their lives and scaring Dean so fucking badly when he thought Sam had been possessed that in the last twenty four hours, Dean hasn’t fucking moved more than a foot away from him.

            So last night, after smoking the bastard out of the poor girl he had possessed (and taking her to the hospital in the hopes that _something_ could be done for her broken body) they had smoked the last of their weed and gotten fall-down drunk, ending in them passing out around four in the morning and putting Sam out like he’d been clapped in the back of the head by a sledgehammer.

            This time, he’s watching Dean, struggling and helpless.  He’s sitting, alone, high up in the bleachers of Stanford Stadium.  Down on the charred, ripped up earth of the field he watches Dean, being chased by a pack of demons from end zone to end zone, his cries for help so sharp and painful that Sam’s cheeks are wet with tears of blood, held to his ruined seat by an incredible, hurting weight that gets heavier every time one of the demons peels another bit of Dean’s skin from his naked back.  It’s like drowning, except Sam can’t see the water pouring into his lungs.

            It’s the most horrifying, hurtful thing that Sam can conceive of, and it scares him right on down to his bones.  Even though he’s far away from Dean, his shirt front is still covered in flecks of blood from his brother’s body, shining bright red in the angry sun that’s beating down on him.  This isn’t right, it’s not real, it can’t be, not when…

            God, that demon is in the room with them isn’t it?  It’s got Dean, and Sam isn’t dreaming, he’s about to _die-_

“Sammy, wake up!”

            Sam shoots upright, gun in hand, shouting _Christo_ – only to find himself aiming at empty air in a dark motel room, Dean alive and imploring him to calm down with a spread, firm hand on his naked chest, breathing hard just the same as Sam.

            “What… God, Dean, it wasn’t fucking real, was it?”  Sam’s voice cracks with every word, trying to get his racing thoughts and emotions back under some sort of order.  The ones about Jess he just wakes up and puts himself back together.

            The rare ones about Dean, like this one?  Sam feels like he’s been gutshot for days afterwards, and the only way to make it better is to constantly reassure himself that it was just a dream – for now.

            “No, Sam, it wasn’t.”  He eases Sam back down to the bed and takes his gun, setting it on the nightstand beside him.  “No one and nothing here but you and me, promise.”

            Sam digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to smear away the last vestiges of his nightmare.  “Felt real.”  He takes a deep breath, feeling the moisture on his chest.  “Crap, was I sweating that much?”  He’s almost afraid to look, just in case it _was_ blood.

            “Yeah, you were.”  Dean keeps rubbing his chest and stomach in easy, comforting loops, his naked body pulled up close to Sam’s under the covers.  “Woke me up when I realized your normal sleep clinging was turning into involuntary squeezing me clinging.”

            “You… demons had you.”  Sam takes another shaking breath and swallows, his mouth and throat parched.  He doesn’t feel hungover, just _scared._ “They were peeling you like an onion and I had to watch.”

            Dean shudders, running his fingers through Sam’s sweaty hair.  “No more weed for you.”  Dean stifles a cough, looking a little green as he tries to get his breathing back under control.  “Hell, no more for _me._ ”

            “Think it’s worth staying up or do you want to go back to sleep?”  Sam has no idea what time it is, only that he knows he’s definitely not had enough rest and his heart is still going way too fast to bother closing his eyes.  Right as he’s been getting a curb on his insomnia, this happens.  He has to double check to make one hundred percent sure he doesn’t smell sulfur and that it was just his imagination.

            He’s still not convinced, but Dean does feel awfully real and definitely isn’t bleeding out before him, looking down at Sam where he’s propped up on one elbow.

            “Wanna take a walk?”  Dean’s speech is still a little slurry, his syllables a little softer than his normal easy drawl.  Sam can’t stop looking at his mouth and eyes, warm and relaxed in such a way that it can’t be an imitation or his imagination projecting some sort of palpable fantasy.

            Sam shakes his head and reaches for Dean’s head, bringing him down so that not even the daylight he can’t see can get between them.  “I… don’t know, honestly.  Just wanna stay close, mostly.”

            “We can do that.”  Dean kisses him on the mouth, gently, like a rain drop settling on the end of a leaf.  “Can always do that, Sammy.”

            It doesn’t take long for that single drop to become a downpour.

            Sam pulls him in for another kiss, opening his mouth to taste the still smoky remnants of last night’s memory purge.  Dean moans when he curls his fingers over the back of his head and holds him close, forcing Dean’s mouth open and pressing in on him with his jaw, tasting and licking as deeply as he can go.  Dean rolls on top of him, slotting between Sam’s legs until they’re rocking against each other, cocks slick with precome and bodies damp with sweat.

            “Need you, Dean, just… need you.”  Sam bites at his bottom lip and flips them, sucking on Dean’s tongue and lips and taking, taking everything Dean’s offering him because he’s fucking _alive_ to do it.  He pins Dean’s hands above his head, rutting against his hip, lavishing Dean with kiss after kiss until his lips are starting to bruise.

            Dean’s the one who has to break the path Sam’s heading down, getting one of his hands free and touching the side of Sam’s face.

            “Not goin’ anywhere, Sam.  ‘S okay if we slow down a little.”  He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, pushing up and back from his forehead.  It’s so fucking _comforting_ that Sam’s heart rate drops by ten beats a minute, letting go of Dean to get his hand between them and put their cocks together, stroking and kissing another sweet moan from Dean’s mouth.

            Dean wraps his legs around Sam’s waist, kicking the sweat sticky sheets from their bodies and holding him close.  Sam knows he wants more, that _Dean_ wants more – but for right this second, he’s lost in the feel of Dean’s blood warm shaft against his own, coated with the precome that seems to be in endless supply.

            Sam can feel the edge of his orgasm cutting through the last of his sleep-induced haze, backing off immediately and lifting himself away from Dean’s body. Dean watches his cock, swaying with the heaviness of blood, dripping precome in a long string that lands somewhere in Dean’s pubes.  “Got close, just… give me a second.”

            “Got all the time in the world.”  Dean reaches for him again, both hands on Sam’s neck and face.  “Might want to get the lube.  Love takin’ your cock, Sammy, but hell if I’m doing it dry.”

            “Hasn’t stopped you begging before.”  Sam nips his collarbone and gets up, taking the momentary suspension of activity to collect himself, shoving all of the crap that was going through his head when he was asleep into the corner.  He’ll process later, when he and Dean aren’t still reeling from the hunt itself.

            Provided he doesn’t trip and fall head first into the table that’s got to be somewhere in his general direction.

 What little light that’s managing to get in through the curtains isn’t nearly enough to see by, and he fumbles for the lamp on the small desk opposite the bed.  Turning it on shows him Dean, lying back and drinking in his body, left arm behind his head and his right curled around his cock, stroking himself lazily.

“Give me a spin, Sam, let me see that booty.”

Sam rolls his eyes and hides his smile, putting his hands on his hips and trying his best to make his ass pop a little.  “I’m kind of on a mission here.”

            “Yeah, I know – but maybe I should be the one eating _you_ out.  Some nice buns, Sammy, _very_ nice buns.”

            “I’ll get you some butter to slap on them - now can I find the lube and pound you?”

            The little hitch in Dean’s breathing tells him that yes, he absolutely can, and the sooner the better.  It’s lying in the top of Sam’s duffle, less than half full and sticky from Sam’s haste to grab it and slick Dean up more mid-thrust a couple days before.  He’s already squirting some into his hand and wetting his cock as he comes back to the bed, tossing the bottle to Dean to let him do what he needs.

            “Thought you’d at least offer to do it for me.”  Dean picks up the lube and coats his fingers, legs spread and ass forward, closing his eyes as he circles his hole and starts working himself open.  Sam sits back on his knees, close enough to see the spit on Dean’s lips where he keeps licking and biting them. 

            “Wanna watch this time.  So fuckin’ hot, Dean, all spread out for me like that.”  Watching two of Dean’s fingers disappear into his ass in short order has Sam panting, listening intently for the soft, breathy little moans that Dean keeps trying to suppress.

            “I’ll remember that next time _you’re_ desperate.”  Dean sticks his tongue out at him and works in a third finger, fucking himself quickly to get his body ready that much faster.  “Just keep stroking that fat cock for me, Sammy, and I’ll call it even.”

            Sam takes his hand away and adds some of his own precome to the mess, smearing it all over the bottom knuckles of Dean’s fingers.  “Like that?”

            “Yeah, Sam, big help.”

            Dean gives himself another minute and then pulls Sam forward with his feet, hooking them around his waist so that Sam lines up almost perfectly with his ass.

            It’s a test of willpower to not sink into Dean too fast, to take it slow and steady and kiss him on the way down, filling him up inch by inch.  Sam’s heart comes up to his throat as he realizes just how much Dean managed to loosen himself up for him, how _easy_ it is – Christ, Dean’s going to be a loose, sloppy mess by the time Sam’s done with him, isn’t he?

            Dean only gives him a second to collect himself once he’s bottomed out before grabbing Sam’s hips and _pulling._

“Think there was mention of, uh, pounding?”  Dean tries to move Sam himself, only Sam isn’t going to budge a millimeter.  Dean’s warm and close and under him, so he’s absolutely not in a position to make too many demands right now.

            “Can you wait one freaking second, Dean?”

            “That’s what you get for making me finger myself now _fuckme._ ”

            Sam’s getting to it, he promises.  But he’s going to enjoy the closeness of Dean’s body for just another minute – and he’s not above biting Dean’s right nipple again to make it last a little longer.  Yeah he’s hard as fuck and balls deep in Dean’s ass but after that fucking dream last night, _Sam_ needs a little time.  There’s never not going to be the thought in the back of his head that _this could be the last time, you had better enjoy it_ – Sam’s learned to live with it.  They both have.

            “You have two seconds before I fuck you so hard that you can’t bitch for a week.”  Sam straightens up and puts Dean’s legs on his shoulders, hauling Dean up so that he’s actually suspended just above the bed.   “Really, nothing?”

            Dean shakes his head, caught between jerking himself off and trying to keep stable, nothing supporting him but Sam’s hands holding him just above his knees and his cock in his ass.  Sam rolls his hips, giving Dean a second to get used to the feeling of not quite weightlessness and his prostate getting nailed – when it looks like Dean can handle it, Sam doesn’t hold back anymore.

            “Feel so fuckin’ good, Dean.”  Sam grips Dean’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises, looking down into his brother’s eyes, feeding off the raw heat being directed back to him.  “Got such a tight, hot ass, every fuckin’ time.”

            Dean moans, holding onto his cock like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.  “Fuck, Sammy, _deeper._ ”

            “Fuckin’ right I’m going deeper.”  Sam had promised to rail Dean, and that’s what he’s going to do.  “Gonna leak all fuckin’ day, Dean, walk around with me dripping out of you.”  He has to quell the urge to come, mind flashing with the image of Dean squirming as Sam’s come leaks out of him in the middle of interviewing a witness, or maybe in line at the checkout after breakfast.

            Dean finally gives up on holding himself steady, leaving it to Sam’s upper body strength entirely.  “Fuck, Sam, you… god, like that Sammy, fuck me til I’m… fuck, Sam, just don’t fucking _stop._ ” 

            It’s a mark of just how fucking well Sam is doing when Dean can’t put a sentence together, torn between closing his eyes against the overload of sensation and looking at Sam, wanting to see every expression and feeling that passes over his face.

            Sam loses himself in Dean’s body, alternating between biting and kissing his calves and folding him in half, fucking nearly straight down into him to taste his mouth and pull every sound Dean makes back to him, adding to the fire roaring low in his body, making him sweat and curse and bite.  Dean’s going to be covered in bruises after, Sam knows it.  He can’t help it, can’t help but take as much of Dean as he possibly can every fucking time.

            “’M close, Dean, so fucking close.”  He’s actually been fighting it back for a while now, but Dean keeps doing this thing where he sucks the end of his tongue like it’s his cock and Sam has no fucking chance against that move, no matter how much he’s tried to fight it.  “Gonna fill you the fuck up with my load, _big brother_.”

            “Fuck, Sammy…”  Dean’s hand is a blur on his cock, jerking himself harder and faster, trying to keep up with Sam’s rapidly alternating rhythm.  “Goddamn right you will, c’mon, Sammy, come for me.”  Dean squeezes himself around Sam, pulling a low, loud growl from Sam that he didn’t know he was even _capable_ of.

            It’s right against Dean’s throat, and that’s all it takes for Dean to come, coating his stomach and Sam’s so copiously that Sam’s sure he actually just came twice.  He holds on until Dean’s teeth sink into his neck with the peak of his climax and then Sam is gone too, pumping deep into Dean’s body and letting himself be consumed, fire racing across his skin and burning him all the way down to the soles of his feet.

            When he picks his head up, daylight is coming through the slit in the curtains and Dean is weakly stroking his hair, sweating and humming nonsense words under his breath that have the tone of comfort to them.

            Sam kisses Dean’s neck where he bit him a little too hard and manages to get a little more comfortable without actually pulling out of Dean’s body just yet.  “Think I could sleep again.”

            Dean grumbles, turning his head to try and see at least some of Sam’s face.  “Not til you find a washcloth.”

            “Or I could just carry you to the shower.”  Honestly that’s all talk, given that he can’t fucking feel his legs right now – but it’s a nice thought all the same.

            “I swear if you carry me I will leave you on the side of the road.”

            “You like it when I pick you up against the wall.”

            “It’s sexy then.  Afterwards it’s… girly.”

            Sam chuckles, kissing along Dean’s jaw.  “Like you’re a virgin bride being carried across the threshold.  And it wouldn’t be the first time, you jerk.”

            “Yeah but I’m not drunk _now._ ”

            “Fine – I’ll let your fragile masculinity remain intact.”  He rolls off of Dean, pulling his soft, still wet cock out of his ass and trying not to think about the mess of come and lube that just stained the mattress.  He considers licking Dean out for a moment – only for Dean to push him away with his foot and fix him with a “you need to clean me up _now_ ” expression.

            “Can eat off the buffet later, Sammy, get that shower running.”

            For someone who begs to be eaten out, Sam figures he’d be just a _little_ more game for it.

___

            “I have a surprise for you, Sammy.”

            Sam looks up from his scrambled eggs, way too delicious to try and wolf down in a hurry.  There’s something about breakfast places in Memphis that makes Sam’s mouth water, and while Dean had tucked away two plates of grits and toast, Sam was going to fucking _savor_ these.

            “Ghost hunts aren’t a surprise, Dean.”

            “Yeah, whatever – but seriously, _surprise._ ”  Dean shoves an envelope across the table towards Sam, already opened.  Sam puts his fork down and looks inside, pulling out two tickets to… Bonaroo.

            “The hell?”

            “Tonight, Sam – Tom Petty’s playing.  Y’know, _Last Dance with Mary Jane?_ ”  Dean’s practically bouncing in his seat, and alright, Sam’s interested.

            “Yeah, of course I do.  But how’d you get these?”  Sam looks at them more closely, eyebrows going up at the cost of them.  “And where’d you get the money for them?”

            “Didn’t – someone left them on the counter and Lacey up there didn’t see me swipe ‘em.”  Dean doesn’t seem in the least bit ashamed about stealing them, not something so innocent as concert tickets.

            “And no one’s come back to look for them?”  Sam can see that Dean’s hot on this, and alright, maybe a concert would be nice.  Sure it’s hot as hell and Manchester is nearly three hundred miles due east but they have nothing to do chase at the moment, nothing to kill or summon or maim.

            “Not a soul.  Guess they had other things to do.  What do you say, Sammy, wanna go?”

            Dean actually reaches for his hand and squeezes it, imploring with every inch of his body and spirit.

            Ten minutes later, they’re on the road and barreling east.

___

            The humid night clings to Dean like a second skin, his normally spiked up hair nearly flat with the press of a thousand other beings generating body heat, clamoring and cheering in a sea of life that curls towards the stage like a tide that never quite reaches its destination.  His t-shirt sticks to him under his arms and along his back, showing every curve and muscle like a sculpture.

            Dean cheers with that crowd, and Sam can’t stop looking at him.

            Tom Petty and his Heartbreakers launch into the next song in their set, and Dean sings right along with them, looking back and forth from the band to Sam and then back again, lips curled up in a smile as he leans in and sings almost against Sam’s ear.

            _Baby, breakdown, go ahead and give it to me_

Sam catches on, singing with Dean and putting his arm around his waist, not caring in the least that they’re both dusty and sweaty from this hot, beautiful night.

            _Breakdown honey, take me through the night_

Dean looks so completely, unconditionally happy, exactly where he wants to be.  Everywhere and nowhere, so long as Sam’s there too.  He keeps leaning towards Sam and lowering his voice so that only Sam can hear him.  It’s a small, beautiful privacy amongst the crowd, not a single soul giving them a second look.  There are plenty of other people here in the exact same position, close together, swaying back and forth to the music.

            _Breakdown now, I’m standing here can’t you see_

Sam lets his mind wander, just for a minute.  He thinks backwards, from the bus stop he left at, heading for Palo Alto and for a life he thought he wanted.  To the night Dean landed on him on the floor of his apartment, with his heady, road and leather jacket scent, grinning down at Sam and looking more alive than Sam had seen him in years.  It had nearly broken Sam’s heart then, thinking he’d lost that, lost _Dean._

_Breakdown, it’s alright_

_It’s alright_

_It’s alright_

Nothing up to that point had ever felt completely right, no matter how much Sam had tried to convince himself otherwise.  He wouldn’t be here now if he’d not followed his brother again, wouldn’t be able to listen to Dean sing and smile and turn even more into where Sam’s arm is around him.

            _Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me_

Alright, Tom, you’re right.

            Sam leans in towards Dean, lungs full of the sweet, heavy air and the scent of Dean’s warm, happily tired body.  “No one knows we’re brothers here, Dean.”

            He can see Dean’s stomach do a slow roll, the light in his eyes getting brighter as the song dies away and Dean pulls him down, tugging at the back of Sam’s neck and slipping his tongue into his mouth.  Dean tastes a little salty, earthy, like he’s come straight from this mass of life and raw joy that shouldn’t be nearly as addictive as it is.  Sam holds him, wishing with all his being that this moment could suspend, keep them there for just a little while longer.

            The crowd shifts, and they have to pull apart.

            “Wouldn’t matter if they did, Sammy. Wouldn’t change a fucking thing, not one.”  Dean’s cheeks are deep pink, burned from the sun overhead and the close, continual presence of Sam.

            Sam kisses him again, fighting back a surge of emotion that feels an awful lot like melancholy, except there’s a brightness at the center.  California seems very, very far away, the last two and a half years like a fantasy that Sam hadn’t really been truly alive and present for.

            “Thanks for coming for me, Dean.”

            He’ll blame the crack in his voice on all the singing and shouting they’ve been doing for the last three hours.  Dean knows exactly what he means, and accepts it with another touch to Sam’s cheek and a warm, tight hug, rocking Sam back and forth to the next song.

            Sam doesn’t think much anymore about the what ifs, the maybes, the life could be so much better except I’m burdened with _destiny_ tangents his mind sends him off on.  There had been a truth to what Dean had told him not so long ago – saving people, hunting things.  Sam understands that it’s important work, and always will be.

            Except it was Sam that Dean had saved first, and that’s something he _does_ think about.

            Dean takes Sam by the hand and starts to lead him back out of the crowd, ignoring the music and the people around them, holding fast to Sam, looking back every two seconds to make sure he’s still there.  Always watching, always protecting.  Sam had tried to live without that presence.

            It had hurt him, even on the days when he hadn’t felt it quite so much and Dean felt so fucking distant he may as well have been a memory.  Dean hasn’t stopped trying to fix that wound since that night, and that realization finally hits him full force.

            They find a quiet place outside of the main stage area, darkened in the void between floodlights.  Dean pulls him up against the side of a tent and kisses him again, his hands gripping Sam’s hips and waist like a vice.

            “Sam.”  Dean touches his face, fingers running over his jaw, his ears, his neck, feeling to see.  “ _Sammy._ ”

            Sam has to break the contact, his throat closing up with emotion that is threatening to overwhelm any coherent thoughts he’s trying to get out.  “I need you to hear this, Dean.”  He kisses him, gently, keeping his mouth close for Dean to hear.  “I’m home, alright?  I thought… no, it doesn’t matter what I thought.  But I’m home, wherever you are.  That’s it, Dean, just… I’m _home_.”

            That final, sweet acceptance makes Sam nearly collapse with joy, relief, the final, complete ruination of what he had tried to build for himself.  He holds Dean tight, face buried in his brother’s shoulder, hiding tears that Dean won’t mock him for, not this time.  There’s a deep, abiding glory to it, one that he’s going to share with Dean.  If they go down, they go down – but it’ll be next to the one person he cares more about than anything else in the world.

            “Me too, Sammy.”  Dean’s eyes are full too, looking very much like a man who’s been missing a piece for so long that he’s just learned to live with the hole in his side.  “Me too.”

            Between the floodlights of the park and the bright, Tennessee stars above, Sam feels like he’s just touched a little bit of that sweet glory up above, a promise that no matter what, this doesn’t change.

            As the one constant that Sam has ever had, he vows to himself that he won’t live without Dean again.

___

            Getting out of small town North Carolina shouldn’t take nearly this long, and yet the hour – and road – that Dean picked to get up and burn west happened to include one very long, slow school bus route. 

            “Dean, stop looking at those kids like you’re gonna run them over.”  Sam’s trying to eat an egg and cheese biscuit and drink scalding hot coffee at the same time with two sprained wrists and a busted lip.  “They haven’t done anything.”

            “Not them, Sammy, the bus driver.”  Dean winces, his seatbelt pulling against a couple of cracked ribs and gigantic, ugly bruise, center chest.

            It wasn’t a monster this time, no.

            It was rednecks.

            Six of them.

            With lengths of pipe that Sam didn’t see before Dean started feeling him up at the bar. 

Albemarle must not take kindly to a couple of guys touching each other, so not only did they have every ugly insult in the book hurled at them but there had been a couple of beer bottles too.  Dean’s casual defiance of “play it safe, we’re in a socially rigid area” has gotten them into trouble more than once, and this was one brawl Sam was sure they weren’t going to get out of alive.

            Only the appearance of Dean’s Bowie knife had made a difference, and even then Dean wasn’t one hundred percent positive he could take all of them down.

            “She’s working hard, Dean – you drive a bus full of kids twice a day, five days a week for four hours.”

            “Aren’t you glad you always had a ride to school?”  Dean tries to waggle his eyebrows, only to hiss sharply through his teeth.  “Now I just give you a ride _everywhere._ ”

            “I could always get my own car and follow, y’know.”

            That rankles Dean, and he turns back to stare daggers at the line of traffic in front of them.  Sam takes another sip of coffee and wishes for his body to stop _throbbing._

“Remember you used to get excited about the first day of school.”

            Dean isn’t facing him, and Sam doesn’t reply right away.

            “It always sucked at first.  Getting entire summers with you wasn’t an easy thing to forget.”

            Dean nods, reaching for his own coffee in the cupholder.  “Had a pretty good summer this time, didn’t we?  Was hot and there were rednecks but… aside from that, it didn’t suck, did it?”

            Sam laughs, putting down his biscuit to touch Dean’s thigh.  “Doesn’t have to end this time, either.  Still have like, a month left anyway.”

            “Another month before the _really_ crazy shit comes out – you ever noticed that monsters get more pissed around the autumnal equinox?”

            “Yeah, who doesn’t?”

            Sam flashes him a smile, and Dean returns it as best he can.  No, Sam isn’t in the least bit sad that he’s not on his way to some school where he has to re-introduce himself for the hundredth time, or make up an occupation for what his dad does.  Monster killer never really went over well.

            “No, seriously – witches get meaner, werewolves pop up out of nowhere.  We’re about to have a full dance card, Sammy, and you had better be ready for it.”

            Sam _is_ ready.

            “Why don’t we worry about getting out from behind this school bus first?”

            And yes, so far as summers go, this one was at the top of the list.

           

           

           

                       

           

           

             

           

           

           

           

           

           

**Author's Note:**

> There are two pieces of music that I listened to when writing this: Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of "Summertime" by George and Ira Gershwin, along with Mason Bate's orchestral piece "Rusty Air In Carolina."


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